


dream come true

by RowboatCop



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: :), F/M, Future Fic, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, boob windows, coulson just wants to make her happy, daisy is kinda insecure, daisy is totally gonna commission steve rogers to draw coulson with a boob window, daisy makes coulson a boob window, makedaisyhappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6603301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy and Coulson talk about boob windows, being a hero, and how amazing she is. Also there are orgasms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dream come true

“Is that…”

Coulson pauses beside her where she sits at the table in his office, looks more carefully at the screen over her shoulder, at the drawing of a young woman standing on top of a pile of rubble.

“Fanart.”

“Of you?”

“Of me with, like, quadruple D cup boobs,” she answers, cupping her own perfectly wonderful breasts over her tank top and frowning.

He wants to say something nice, but it feels dangerous to say something nice _about her breasts_ (she has lovely breasts, he thinks, not that he’s seen much of them, but he certainly wouldn’t change anything about them), and instead tries to pull his eyes away, to focus back on the computer.

“What are you wearing?”

“I know, right? That doesn’t even look like my field suit _at all_. They added a boob window.”

“Boob window,” he repeats, leaving the question implied even though he can pretty much guess.

“Yeah, you know where it’s —” She does something with the neckline of her tank top, tugs it down enough that it’s just _startlingly_ clear that she’s not wearing a bra, and then cinches it at the top. It leaves a little gap of skin visible between her breasts, the flat plane between them and the barest suggestion of soft inner curves disappearing underneath the cotton. “Except if you actually put me in that, there’s not that much to show off.”

Coulson swallows.

Daisy looks up at him and he tries to smile, like he’s not some sort of letch who just got turned on while she was talking about her insecurities.

“Sorry,” she shakes her head and smiles up at him, lets the neckline of her top return to its normal shape, though the normally low-cut of it dips even lower now that she’s stretched it out.

His jaw ticks, and he blinks away from the image.

At her dejected frown, he takes a seat beside her, turning the chair enough that he can still see the screen, where this heroic pencil-drawn form of Daisy (with, yes, very large partially exposed breasts) stands on a destroyed street, shoulders back, hair wild around her face. It’s clearly based on some of the images from the news, and obvious embellishments aside, he can’t say he doesn’t like it.

“No,” he shakes his head. “No, don’t be sorry. I just don’t know what to say.”

“I shouldn’t have looked. I mean, it’s pretty narcissistic of me, right? To look at what people are saying about me —”

“It’s not narcissistic,” Coulson is quick to reassure her. “It’s normal.”

Now that she’s been officially named, now that the papers are talking about _Quake_ , he’s not sure how she could avoid it. There’s been footage all over the news of her punching the ground, of the crack she made that basically swallowed an entire alien army.

There’s been interview footage, too, of survivors praising her as a hero, the savior of the Avengers (Steve Rogers gave her that title), all of it interspersed with the occasional wealthy white woman clutching her pearls and bemoaning all the property damage.

(Someone has already auto-tuned one man’s rant about his broken windows. Yeah, of course he’s been looking.)

“It seems like a bunch of them just think I’m hot. But they also clearly wish I was hotter.”

“You look very heroic in that drawing,” he offers. “It’s obviously more than just that you’re hot.”

“Yeah.” She closes her laptop and turns to look at him. “I guess it’s just new. I haven’t given a lot of thought before to how people see me.”

“People see you as a hero.”

“It’s weird,” she tells him, like she’s confiding something. “Because I’m not. I’m just me, but suddenly it’s like —”

“Hey,” he cuts her off, reaching out to touch her cheek because this is _important_ , because he wants to look her in the eyes. “You’re a hero. You were a hero the day I met you.”

“The day you put a bag over my head?”

He can feel his ears burn, and he drops his fingers away from her face.

“I —”

“I’m kidding,” she shakes her head and catches his hand, just holds it like it’s a normal thing, even though he’s very very sure it’s not a _thing they do_.

(Not that he keeps a catalog of _things they do_ and thinks about acceptable moments to touch her that fit those parameters because of course he doesn’t.)

Still, he curves his fingers around hers, holds her hand back.

“You were, though. That’s what I remember about you — that you wanted to help people. That you had convictions.”

“That’s what I remember about you, too,” she tells him. “I didn’t know men in suits could be so heroic.”

He has to stop himself from rolling his eyes because of course he can’t praise Daisy without her turning it back around on him.

“Well, when someone draws me with a boob window in my suit —”

“Oh, I like it,” Daisy grins. “I should commission a portrait. I hear Steve Rogers is really good at sketches.”

Coulson can feel his face flush pink, but she’s smiling, and he doesn’t exactly mind making a fool of himself if it makes Daisy smile and hold his hand.

“You think I could pull it off?”

She laughs delightedly and drops his hand (a momentary disappointment) only to lean far enough forward that she can rest both her hands on his chest, her fingers poised at his buttons.

“Can I?”

He swallows and nods once, bracing himself for her reaction when she unbuttons his shirt and sees that he’s wearing nothing underneath, sees the mangled flesh of his scar.

Working slowly, she pops open two more buttons on his shirt, and then freezes, her eyes pointed down at this chest so he can’t tell exactly what’s going on in her head. He expects her to say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sets her hand softly on his scar for a moment, a solemn acknowledgement that it’s there, and then and then proceeds with her plan.

Her hands tickle at his throat as she does up the very top button on his collar, and he can’t quite stop himself from squirming as she folds back the edges of his shirt where she’s opened it, widening the gap between his collar and the button in the middle of his chest. Every light brush of her fingers against his chest hair burns through him, and he clenches his jaw against growing arousal.

“Boob window,” she announces, leaning back with a grin as though she’s admiring him, and all he wants in the entire world is for her to keep smiling like that.

“Do I look heroic?” He arches his back, turning his shoulders slightly, attempting something like a shimmy, and Daisy collapses in laughter.

“ _So_ heroic,” she manages between gasps, and he wonders if he should be offended.

He can’t be, of course.

“Hey,” he rests his hand over hers as he draws her attention because maybe this can be a _thing they do_ now. “I’m sorry there are people that are more interested in your...breasts, than in you.”

He doesn't know how to handle it, is the thing. He doesn't know how to navigate the insecurity she feels, somewhere between insecure about how people see her body and insecure that people  _only_ see her body. It's not something he has to deal with the same way, and he knows that.

“It’s not so bad,” she tells him, smiling lightly. “I mean, it would be nice if my boobs were as nice as in that picture —”

“You’re perfect,” he cuts in, trying really hard not to let his eyes drop to her chest. He fails, especially because the neckline of her tank is still pulled wide and dipping down to show a tantalizing hint of cleavage that he definitely shouldn’t be noticing.

“Perfect?”

He licks his lips and darts his eyes back up to meet hers.

“Yes?”

Daisy bites her lips, looks like she’s seriously contemplating something, and then stands up, only to plop herself down so she’s straddling his lap. A moment later, and her shirt is gone, tossed somewhere to the side.

Coulson’s hands curl around the arms of the chair, just beyond the edges of her thighs, and he inhales deeply, trying to find some shred of control, trying to keep his eyes on her face.

He just doesn’t know how to handle himself, whether he’s supposed to push her away — _surely_ he’s supposed to push her away, to show her that he didn’t say something nice for...for whatever it is she thinks he wants from her. _Surely_ he's supposed to push her away, to show her that she's more to him than her body, that what attracts him to her is about so much more. 

And it makes him a little sick that she’s picked up on it, on his attraction to her, since he tries so hard not to make it something she has to worry about.

Still, her breasts are bare, and even when he’s trying not to look, he can see them in too much perfect detail — obviously soft and perfectly shaped with her nipples pulled tight.

He can feel his jaw tick as he struggles to keep his hands on the chair, as he struggles not to lean forward...

Whatever confidence was in her expression when she landed in his lap starts to disappear, replaced by obvious self-doubt.

“You didn’t mean perfect like this.”

“I —” He swallows instead of answering.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Coulson. I didn’t mean —”

He manages to wrap his right hand around her hip before she gets off his lap, shakes his head, because he doesn’t want her to throw herself at him out of some misplaced sense of obligation, out of some misplaced sense that her body is what she has to offer, but he doesn’t want her to feel like she’s done something wrong, either.

“Skye,” he whispers, and tightens his fingers around her.

Her hands frame his face, and she leans down almost close enough to rest her forehead against his.

“It’s Daisy, Phil.”

“Daisy,” he breathes in, and then out. “Daisy. Right. Daisy.”

He doesn’t mean to, exactly, but he lets his left hand curl around her other hip, holding her firmly in place.

“You _did_ mean perfect like this,” she suggests, wiggling herself down in his lap to get more comfortable.

“I wasn’t...coming onto you,” he half-defends himself.

“But see, I was,” she smiles, looking confident again and letting her hands drift from his face down to his open shirt — to his boob window. “I was definitely coming onto you.”

“Oh?” he manages, not quite vocalized, as she pops open his collar and lets her hands slide down his bare chest, so he can’t help but shudder ridiculously at the touch, at the way she brushes her fingers _so lightly_ over his nipples, making them pebble and pull tight.

“Coulson?”

He looks up at her — only realizing after the fact that his eyes had drifted shut — to see her face once again dropping a little, her insecurities creeping in.

“You’re so beautiful,” he manages, because that’s all that really matters to him — that Daisy knows she’s beautiful. More than beautiful. He has no idea what it means for them, if he’s about to get his heart broken, but maybe it’s worth it if it makes her feel good.

“Yeah?”

He nods adamantly, has to consciously relax his left hand on her hip, to make sure he doesn’t squeeze too hard as he leans forward and presses his lips softly to the base of her throat.

“Daisy,” he mumbles against her skin, and breathes in the scent of her, right at the curve of her neck, “you’re amazing.” He swallows against his own desperate longing, and then lifts her easily up onto the table.

She squeals slightly at the change, but lets him kiss her neck again, lets him trail his lips softly down the perfect, smooth curve of her shoulder, the strong muscles in her arm, the delicate bones at her wrist — the ones she _broke_ for fear of hurting her team.

He kisses the pads of each of her fingertips because he loves her hands, loves the way they are _her_ , powerful and gentle all at once.

It’s only when he glances up at her face, at the tears pooling in her eyes, that he realizes he’s been speaking his thoughts aloud.

“Coulson,” she whispers his name and smiles, just enough that her eyes crinkle and a few tears leak down her cheeks.

He’s so captivated by her that he almost doesn’t notice it at first — the vibrations against his cheek, the way her fingers just barely dance along the smooth skin of his lips, letting him feel the barest tickle of her powers.

“Okay?”

“Yes,” he answers immediately, gets somehow closer, so she can let her hand drift down to his bared chest, the hint of vibrations making his whole body light up. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, meeting her eyes so she can see how much he means it.

There’s a moment where he feels so _exposed_ , like even now, it’s too much to let her know how he thinks about her, but Daisy reels him into a kiss, her lips hot and demanding under his.

He cups her face in his hands, but feels so clumsy with his left hand — it’s not meant for something so delicate, and he errs on the side of barely brushing her skin to avoid accidentally hurting her.

It’s like she gets it, because Daisy pulls out of the kiss in order to link her fingers through his and guide his hands down her neck, past her shoulders, until all four of their hands are cupping her breasts — her fingers letting him know how much pressure he should use as they stroke soft circles around her nipples.

For a long, endless moment, it’s hypnotic — his hands and Daisy’s hands entwined on her breasts, touching her in a way that makes her slowly more flushed, that makes her lips part and her eyes grow cloudy.

“You think they’re perfect.” She makes it a statement, not a question, but he nods anyways, can’t even find a vocal answer.

Instead, he pushes her to lie back on the table and presses his mouth to her, clumsily trying to touch as much of her breasts as he can with his lips and his tongue.

Daisy _writhes_ under him, moaning every time his teeth scrape lightly across her skin, and he starts to work his mouth lower, over the gunshot scars, as he drops his hands to the button at the front of her jeans. He stalls on it, trying to find the words to ask, but she reaches down and almost tears them open.

Coulson pulls back in order to tug her jeans and panties down her legs, leaving her naked and sprawled out on the table. Once she’s bared, she wraps her legs around his hips, trying to draw him down against her, but he pulls away and thuds backwards into a chair.  

“Let me?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, “yes,” and then drifts into a moan as he tugs her forward to the very edge of the table.

Coulson presses his lips to her inner thigh, feels the strength in her legs as she flexes them briefly, and then moves into sweep his tongue across her clitoris. She’s wet, and he doesn’t know why it surprises him — he could see her arousal, her enjoyment, just from their hands on her breasts — but it does. Maybe because it’s fantasy fulfillment, because he’s thought about this even when he shouldn’t have, and now she’s spread out in front of him.

“Coulson,” she grunts, obviously impatient, and it makes him smile up at her.

“I’ve had dreams about this,” he tells her, even though it feels like a dangerous thing to admit.

“About going down on me?” She half-laughs, like that can’t be what he means, so Coulson presses his tongue against her again, opens his mouth to suck against her wetness, and everything about her makes his whole body buzz.

“Yes,” he answers as he pulls back, drawing his hand across his mouth. “About going down on you.”

“Oh.” She looks more than a little shocked, and he feels his face prickle, like he’s said something he shouldn’t have. “So, this is basically a dream come true.”

The shock seems to have slipped off her face, replaced with this cocky smirk as she props herself up on her elbows to look down at him, and it makes him smile so hard his cheeks hurt.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and runs his thumb from her clit down to press against her opening without pushing inside. It makes her drop her head back, arch her back on the table, and let out a soft whimper.

“You should really get started living that dream,” Daisy teases him once she’s recovered, and he’s actually shocked by the way her leg wraps around the back of his neck and pulls him down so he can press his tongue against her, sliding his thumbs to carefully open her up to him.

She’s quiet but responsive as he sets a firm rhythm, harsh breaths and legs pressing against the side of his head, her hands squeezing her breasts.

It doesn’t take much, actually, before she’s coming against his tongue, an obviously shallow orgasm that barely changes her breathing, though she arches into his mouth and he can feel her clit pulse under his tongue.

“Coulson,” she murmurs his name a moment later, and seems surprised when he makes no move to pull away from her, although he stops any direct stimulation of her clit.

“Dream come true, remember?”

Her questioning look turns into wide-eyed shock when he presses his index finger inside of her, and she’s already moaning as he’s able to work a second in as well.

It’s gorgeous to watch — the sight of Daisy coming apart above him, her body squeezing around his fingers, the powerful muscles in her thighs clenching and unclenching as she shifts underneath him until he can’t help but turn enough to nuzzle against her skin — and she’s louder as she reaches her peak.

“Shit, Coulson,” she breathes in and out, labored and interspersed with shivers, but he doesn’t draw his hand back, doesn’t make any move to pull away.

“One more?”

Daisy laughs and then groans when he twists his fingers and presses his tongue to her again, starting slowly to make sure it’s not too much, but she’s quickly lost in the touch — louder than she was before as she moves with him.

It takes longer, but he barely even notices, he’s so caught up in everything about her, and when she finally comes again, it’s with her thighs tight around his head and her skin covered in goosebumps and her back arched on the table and his name falling from her mouth.

Far better than he’s ever dreamed it.

When her legs finally part, releasing his head, he pulls back and draws his forearm across his mouth before he leans over her enough to kiss her. There’s an impulse to tell her more of how he feels — to even tell her that he _loves her_ — but it feels too soon.

Telling her now would be a pressure, he thinks, or an obligation, and he doesn’t want that.

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from kissing her softly, from meeting her eyes and hoping she can see it.

“I need a nap,” she mumbles against his lips, and he grins.

“That can be arranged.”

“And you’ll nap with me?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, pulling her up and wiping at the sweat that’s beaded on her brow. “Of course I will.”

“Good,” she smiles so widely, like it really means something, and then leans into his chest. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

She laughs and nuzzles into his neck.

“Making me feel better,” she answers. “You always make me feel good.”

He kisses her softly, smile meeting smile, because that’s really all he wants.

 


End file.
